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We report: civil twilight, the sun is just beneath the horizon line. The cloud cover is precipitating nightfall, one drop of ink for the hour to turn blue. It is humid like it should be raining, like a word hanging on the tip of our tongue. We stay past nautical twilight.

beguines

Pádraig O' Tuama, Kitchen Hymns

paulfrankjuliusthemonkey

anyway. onto better things

sburbling

onto better things thursday

beguines

Pádraig O' Tuama, Kitchen Hymns

apoemaday

Summer Moon

by Jun Fujita

The rain, crazed like horses In the flare of lightning, has gone.

Against the clear washed sky Rain-drops on the twigs Reflect the moon.

dk-thrive

These days I am obsessed by light, it is so hard to commodify. I am not talking about a beautiful dawn, or holidays in the sun, or the light that makes a photograph look good. I am talking about brightness itself, the air lit up. The gleam on the surfaces of my typing hands. I love the gift of its arrival. The light you see is always eight and a half minutes old. Always and again. And you think it is shared by everyone but it is not shared, exactly — our eyes are hit by our own, personal photons.

— Anne Enright, The Wren, the Wren. (W. W. Norton & Company, September 19, 2023) (via Make Believe Boutique)